


Adolescent graces great and small

by becka



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Implied Underage, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:39:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/becka/pseuds/becka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Styles contemplates Greek philosophy and calls Nick to get his thoughts. And get off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adolescent graces great and small

**Author's Note:**

> I read [this interview with Alain de Botton](http://metro.co.uk/2013/02/13/alain-de-botton-my-ten-commandments-for-atheists-3446357/) on the train one morning, wrote half of this, and then forgot about it for a month.
> 
> Title is from a poem by Greek poet Scythinus (translated by Daryl Hine and found in _The Columbia Anthology of Gay Literature_ ). FWIW, the "adolescent graces" described are "A honeyed voice, a mouth that's sweet to kiss/ And an accommodating orifice." I feel that's relevant here.
> 
> Britpicked by the fabulous [lazy_daze](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lazy_daze/). <3

Nick’s phone rings at 5:30, just after his alarm, and he nearly fumbles it off the bedside table. A string of frantic, disconnected thoughts run through his head, potential tragedies blooming in his still-sleepy brain. “Harry?” he says.

“Hey,” says Harry, cheerful as anything, and Nick sweeps a hand over his eyes. Hale and hearty then, just an idiot. Right. “Alain de Botton’s given an interview about me.”

Nick lets the name ping-pong around his head a few times before it connects to anything. “The philosopher you met at that party?”

“The very same. He says I should leverage my social media status to educate the youth of today about Greek philosophy. Tweet about Socrates or something.”

“Ah,” replies Nick. “And this was desperately important news for me to have at this lovely pre-dawn hour?”

“Crucial,” says Harry. “I started trying to remember what I knew about Greek philosophy.” His voice slips down low, secretive, like it does when he’s about to offer to suck Nick off in a restaurant toilet. Nick rubs at himself through his pants and makes a “continue” sort of noise. “I don’t remember a lot. But I remembered there was this one bit I always liked. About an older man taking a boy as his… pupil, and teaching him how to be a good citizen. But with sex.”

Nick gives a little hum and cups his hand tighter over his dick, smoothing over the throb of it. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?” He glances at the clock, realizes he doesn’t really have time for this, but given that he’s already decided to wear his gym kit to work, he immediately decides he also doesn’t care. Harry’s been gone for days.

“I was thirteen, maybe fourteen, and I would have loved to have a man just take me and make me his.”

Nick wrinkles his nose. “Thirteen’s not a sexy age, love, even on you.”

Harry sighs, and it wavers, tells Nick he’s already touching himself. “All right. Well, it’s not as though it went away after that. How’s sixteen? Imagine me at sixteen. I know you liked me then.”

“You filthy-minded child.” But Nick can’t deny it, the way he’d watched Harry’s dimples and his messy curls on X Factor and lusted after the gorgeous boy who couldn’t keep his clothes on.

“I hadn’t ever been with a boy, not even a boy my own age, but I thought about it all the time. I wanted someone to show me what to do. Just like the Greeks.”

“You wanted a mentor to ease you into the fabulous world of homosexuality.” Nick’s fully stroking his cock now, thinking about Harry’s lovely sixteen-year-old self.

“I wanted someone to ease into me,” Harry says, and Nick can hear his smile so clearly he just wants to taste it. And then he wants to stick his cock in Harry’s bum.

“Did you finger yourself? While you were in that house full of aspiring popstars? Did you think about some big, strong man opening you up and making you beg for his dick?”

“Sometimes. I’d take showers in the middle of the night, when no one else was using the bathroom. And I’d touch myself. It was the only time I had to myself, and that’s what I used it for. I wanted. I wanted someone to fuck me so much. Almost as much as I want it right now.”

Nick groans, turns his face into the pillow. “Tell me more,” he prompts, starting to stroke himself a little faster. He wants Harry under him, can imagine it so clearly, the slick clench of Harry’s arsehole, the squeeze of Harry’s slim thighs around his hips.

“I read that interview and I just. I can’t stop thinking about you in me. I want you so much right now.”

“It’s not even dawn, love,” Nick points out. “Why are you awake?”

“Just couldn’t sleep.” He goes quiet, but Nick can still hear the soft hitch of his breath, telling him everything he could need to know. Harry is fingering himself in some hotel in bloody Yorkshire, and Nick’s in London all alone with a hand on his cock, and it’s so unfair, that distance. “I miss you, Nick,” Harry whispers. “I want you.”

Nick’s not the sort of person who says those things, but he can’t help it right now. “You too, Haz. I miss you too. Are you close? Can I hear you come?”

“Keep talking to me. I will if you keep talking.”

“Okay,” says Nick, slowing his hand, focusing on the sound of Harry breathing down the phone. “So you were in your house full of aspiring pop stars, fingering yourself in the shower, wanting a man to come and fuck your tight virgin arse.”

“Right,” says Harry.

“Had I known, I would have come straight over from T4 and had you against that bathroom wall so fast your head would spin.”

Harry gasps like that’s just what he needed to hear, but what he says after is, “Wouldn’t you have been gentle with me my first time?”

Nick has to get a tighter grip on himself at that. “Wasn’t I?” Harry’s never made a big deal of the fact that no one got to his arse before Nick, but Nick was painfully aware of it when it happened, fascinated by the startled look on Harry’s face as Nick entered him for the first time, the way he arched and then settled, opened to it.

“Yeah,” says Harry. “You were. Can you, can you maybe talk to me about that?”

“Oh, Harold,” Nick sighs. “You want me to tell you how tight you were? Because you were very, very tight. You were lovely, wiggling your bum around and begging for more. Every slutty thing I could have hoped for. A natural to getting fucked in the arse, you.” Nick can’t keep up stroking himself and telling Harry how pretty he was with a dick up him for the first time without either coming or possibly dying of his own feelings. He wants Harry here, under him, with him, so badly it’s nearly painful—and not even the sexy kind. And knowing just how soon Harry will be proper gone on his whirlwind of a tour, less accessible for even an early morning wank over the phone, doesn’t help at all. “Took my cock like you were made for it. And maybe you are now, eh? Maybe I’ve shaped you in my image, ruined your little bum for anyone else.”

He hears Harry cry out down the phone and realizes perhaps that is actually enough, to remind him that Nick knows him in this particular way, that no one else does. He hadn’t been Harry’s first, years behind the girls at school who had been felled by Harry’s downright hazardous dimples, his lazy charm; but there’s a piece of Harry no one but Nick has a claim to, and Nick wishes he didn’t like that quite so much. Except that Harry obviously likes it too.

“Did you come, love?” Nick asks, stroking at himself a little faster. “Did you come on your fingers for me?”

Harry murmurs out a yes, and Nick wonders if maybe this will be enough to put him back to sleep until some more reasonable hour. He’s starting to think that getting to work on time may be a lost cause, but he can’t stop now, not when he’s so close and Harry’s breath is still heavy down the phone. 

“Can I hear you?” Harry asks, and Nick squeezes at the base of his dick, looks at the clock, and comes, stroking himself through the aftershocks. It’s easy, with Harry’s voice in his ear, even raspier and more slowed down than usual, bless him, and Nick grabs for a tissue, wipes himself down like he’s thirteen years old wanking before school all over again. There’s no time now to revel in the afterglow. He forces himself to sit up in bed and looks at the pile of his gym clothes laid out on a chair. He can hear Harry drifting off, his breath slowing, and he wants to curl up in bed with his phone and let himself miss his wayward pop star. But he’s an adult, and adults don’t call in Harry Styles to their jobs.

“I need to get to work, love,” Nick says gently. “I’m expecting an angry call from my cabbie any second.”

“Mmm,” replies Harry, slurred and sleepy. “Not sexy.”

“Not a bit. Go back to sleep now. There’ll be time for philosophy later. Greeks and all.”

Harry huffs a little laugh, and Nick smiles in spite of himself.

“Put the phone away or you’ll dribble on it,” Nick tells him.

“Hey,” says Harry petulantly. “I don’t do that.”

“My pillows say otherwise.”

“You’re not a nice person.”

“That’s a vicious rumor and you know it, Harold.”

When Harry sighs, Nick thinks that’s it, and he’s about to ring off when Harry says, “I love you, Nick.”

Every single time it hits him like the first. “I love you, too, Harry.”


End file.
